


For All the Nights to Come

by cgkm2099z



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Regret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgkm2099z/pseuds/cgkm2099z
Summary: Years after the end of the Great Wars, Jon Snow lives north of the wall with little companionship beyond Ghost, his memories, and his regret. But the winds of change are blowing, and a visit from an old friend heralds a chance at redemption, and a newfound purpose.





	1. The Broken Man

**Author's Note:**

> I had no intention of writing this, as I know that George RR Martin doesn't enjoy other people playing around with his characters. However, I just couldn't live with the ending we received from the show and had to get this out. We'll see just where it goes. Valar dohaeris.

Sunlight filtered through leaves deeply tinged with the yellows, oranges, and reds of late autumn, causing a kaleidoscope of sparkles to dance across a stream of water as a man vigorously worked the lever of a screw pump. _Likely the only device like it for a hundred leagues or more,_ the man thought for scarcely the first time. Installed barely a year prior, it was a gift from an old friend from a bygone life. A learned man, whose duties in the South made his infrequent visits increasingly infrequent. He was one of only three people from that former life that maintained any sort of contact.

_Better that they forget about me._ The bucket now being full, the man released the lever and straightened, placing his hands at the small of his back to stretch. The fewer connections he had with that old life, the better. The visits would initially bring a sense of joy, but with them inevitably came the memories. Some of them were happy, but others… And when left alone afterwards, he would fall into a state of melancholy that seemed to stretch further and further each time. The world he had left behind churned ever onward, but here at the end of all things, little changed.

A gentle breeze shook the branches of the trees around him, dislodging several leaves that fluttered down to the earth. One reddish brown leaf plopped lightly into his water pail, sending ripples out in every direction. _Winter is coming,_ the man thought ruefully. The words invariably brought with them a myriad of remembered faces, most of them long gone. But the last one was always the same. The one that had brought the winter with him.

The man fished the leaf out, then hefted the pail and trudged towards a small stable. Once there, he emptied about half of the water into a trough. The horse to which the trough belonged approached and began noisily drinking. The man scratched his fingers through the horse’s black mane and patted the beast affectionately. “Two or three more days, and everything will be ready,” he told the horse, his voice raspy from lack of use. The main benefit of defeating the Night King had been the ability for men and women everywhere to continue drawing breath, but an unexpected side benefit was the normalization of the seasons. Which made planning for winter much, much easier.

The horse suddenly jerked his head free from the water, trotting several paces to the side and whickering with fear. The man turned and spied the source of the animal’s discomfort. Eyes the color of blazing coals approached slowly, their gaze unwavering, set within a coat of immaculate white fur. The ever-silent direwolf continued gracefully forward and the man knelt to greet him. He scratched the wolf under the chin and received a nuzzle followed by a lick to the side of his face. The man raised his hand to his beard and groaned. “Must you do that right after you’ve eaten?”

The direwolf cocked his head to the side, eyes unblinking. The man chuckled lightly and gave the wolf one last pat before rising and leading the still anxious horse into the stable. “It’s been over five years. If he hasn’t eaten you yet, he’s not going to.” The horse stomped once and seemingly shook its head in indignation. “Fine, be that way,” the man grumbled as he exited and closed the stable door behind him.

He retrieved the water pail and made his way to the modest, one-room cottage with a thatched roof that served as his dwelling. He pulled the door open and entered. The room served a multitude of purposes, with a small cooking area in one corner. A second corner held a roughhewn table with benches on either side that served as a dining area on those rare occasions that he had guests. A small desk with a handful of books piled on it filled the third corner, with the final corner housing the man’s bed. The wall opposite the door by which he’d entered was dominated by the slate rock hearth which lay at its center.

The man emptied the remaining water into a jug and set the pail outside before returning indoors to stack some wood in the fireplace. After the fire was blazing, he poured some water into a kettle and hung it on the chimney crane to boil. The last bit of water he poured into a wooden mug, then stepped back outside with the mug in hand. The direwolf was stretched lazily around the corner of a small, but stout wooden chair, waiting patiently at the spot where he knew the man would come to take his rest. The man obliged, dropping heavily into the chair and crossing one booted foot over his knee.

The man took a deep drought of the cold, clear water, then shaded his eyes to watch as the sun dropped low on the distant horizon. Wisps of clouds floated amidst the blood red of the sunset. Sinuous tendrils grasping towards him like the fingers of the newly raised wights, still straining to rip out his throat as they died anew amidst dragon flame. His breath caught in his throat as he recalled the sight. The dead closing in around him with no possibility of escape, then the sudden heat and fire. She saved his life that night, and not for the first time. A fine way he had repaid her for that kindness…

His companion stirred by his foot, head raising silently, his one remaining ear rotating slowly in search of some far-off sound. It was a common enough occurrence that the man dismissed it so that he might return to his brooding. Brooding was something of a specialty of his. Someone had once told him he looked so good at it that he made them feel like they were failing at brooding. Unlike the patchwork furs and leathers he now wore, his clothes had been finer back then. His hair less unkempt, his beard not as long or scraggly, and both without the beginning touches of gray brought on by the hard living of the North. He doubted he looked as good brooding now, despite the many more years of practice at it.

The direwolf rose and padded forward several steps, his ear now pointedly fixed in the direction he was looking. The man rose and moved closer to him. “What is it, Ghost?” The direwolf made no reply except to look up at him, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

It was a full two minutes before he had his answer and his vastly inferior ears were able to detect the approaching sound of horses. Not long after, the horses came into view, and the man smiled at the sight of a shaggy plume of red hair bouncing towards him. Three riders came in at a full gallop until the man in the lead pulled the reigns to slow his mount. The horse had barely broken its gallop before the man launched himself from the saddle and advanced quickly towards the figure waiting for him.

Tormund Giantsbane wrapped his friend in a crushing embrace and bellowed, “My little crow!” Tormund was the only man north of The Wall that called him that. Though no one that lived north of The Wall called him by his real name, either.

“Tormund,” the little crow wheezed as the men pulled apart and he was at last able to breathe again. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“Came to warn you,” he grunted. Tormund arched an eyebrow at him and nodded his head towards one of his compatriots. “I’ll let Nalla tell it.”

The two other wildlings, a man and a woman, had flanked Tormund on either side. At Tormund’s prompting, the woman stepped forward. Her otherwise plain face was dominated by an angry red scar that began just under her left eye, then ran down her cheek to her neck before disappearing beneath the folds of the heavy coat she wore. Like most of her people, she was wiry and strong, and had the hard eyes to match. “Lord Crow,” she said, using his more common moniker in a mocking fashion as she sketched what was evidently meant to be a curtsey.

Lord Crow fought back a grimace and nodded to her. The wildlings respected him, but they never let him forget where he came from.

The woman continued in a soft voice that seemed incongruous with her hard exterior, “Jael and me was down trading at Castle Black t’other day. Met some folk there askin’ after you.”

Lord Crow furrowed his brow at the news. Visits were rare enough, but few had any reason to ask his whereabouts. Why would they? He was of little use to anyone, but he’d also never made any particular effort to hide himself. “Do you know what they want?”

Nalla gave a curt shake of her head. “Only asked how t’ find you. They was offerin’ your southern money.”

That added an interesting twist. Most anyone that mattered in the Six Kingdoms or the North had been at the council that decided his fate and knew where he’d gone. “What house were they?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Nalla shrugged. “They was like no men I ever seen. Dark clothes and darker skin. The color o’ dragonglass, as you like. Several o’ them was wearin’ masks.”

Foreigners then. But what would a foreigner want with him? Had anyone from the other side of the Narrow Sea even heard of him? _The Dothraki have, and the Unsullied,_ he thought with some disquiet. Though Nalla’s description didn’t match either of those. Could this be some other former ally of Daenerys Targaryen come seeking revenge? But if that were the case, why wait so long?

Tormund interrupted his reverie by clamping a thick hand on his shoulder. “Nalla and Jael took their money,” he began gruffly, “then sent them in the wrong direction,” he finished with a toothy grin. “Came as fast as we could though. No good can come o’ southerners asking about Jon Snow.”

Jon’s eyebrows raised. Tormund must have been plenty worried if he was using his real name. “I thank you for coming all this way,” he said with a wan smile, “I just don’t know what I’m to do about this.”

Tormund’s hand clenched his shoulder all the tighter. “You want to come back with us? We can make for the Frostfangs. We know the passages, the hideaways. No one would find you there. Sooner or later, they’ll tire of looking. Besides,” Tormund’s gaze drifted to the cottage over Jon’s shoulder and something approaching a sneer touched his lips, “it’s a better life anyway. Never understood why you built this place.”

After his exile, Jon had tried living the wildling life for a time. At first, the detachment had been good for him. Never staying in one place for long meant not having much time to think. In those days, all he wanted was to forget. But in the end, it wasn’t for him. He needed a center. Something simple, something solid.

Jon shook his head tiredly, his decision made. “Thank you, but no.”

Tormund narrowed his eyes. “These men will find you sooner or later. What if they mean to hurt you?”

“Then I expect they’ll hurt me,” he replied with indifference. “But I doubt that’s their intent, or they would not be asking about me so openly.” Tormund remained doubtful. “Look, I can’t hide forever, Tormund. If they are so determined to find me, then they will, be it tomorrow or a year from now.”

Tormund reluctantly removed his hand from Jon’s shoulder. “Alright, little crow, it’s your decision.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “You want us to stay with you until they come?”

Jon shook his head once more. “Again, thank you, but no. If their intentions are peaceful, then I have nothing to fear. And if they aren’t, then there will likely be too many of them for you to make a difference. If I’m to die, there’s no reason for you to die with me.” What he failed to mention to his friend was that he would almost welcome that outcome.

Tormund grunted his disapproval, but his two companions appeared to agree with Jon’s reasoning. Jon clapped his friend on the arm and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine, Tormund, really.” Tormund only glared at him, so Jon tried a different tack. “Will you join me for supper? It’s least I can do for you after such a long trip.” The big wildling pursed his lips but followed him inside along with Nalla and Jael.

Jon boiled some potatoes with carrots and celery to make a watery stew and served it along with dried and salted elk meat and some hard, black bread. All told, it was rather bland fare. Jon had been cooking for himself for years, but never acquired a talent for it. The wildlings didn’t seem to mind, however, and ate heartily.

As they ate, Tormund informed Jon of the latest happenings with the clans. When they first headed north after the end of the great wars, there had been only one clan, what with the wildling numbers being greatly depleted. But old habits die hard. The clans had resumed raiding one another, though thus far the raids did not include killing.

“Those fools what camp down by the Milkwater came for us three weeks past,” Tormund was saying as he ripped into a piece of dried elk. “Solveig’s been covetin’ my horse for years. I let him take it. Made good sport taking it back,” he finished with a bark of laughter.

Jon couldn’t help but laugh along with his friend. Still, the stories concerned him. Stealing for the sake of sport was one thing, but the wildling population was still too precarious to sustain a return to outright war between the clans.

Tormund picked a piece of meat out from between his teeth with a fingernail and suddenly grew more serious. “I saw Eada not long ago.”

Jon’s smile faded, and he pushed a chunk of potato around his bowl aimlessly with his spoon. “What of it?”

“Thought you’d like to know.” Tormund fixed him with a piercing gaze. “Girl’s still hoping you’ll steal her someday.”

Jon stared sullenly at his stew. No shortage of wildling women had made overtures towards him over the years. Eada had been the most persistent. And Tormund seemed determined to find him a match for some reason. “Tormund, I told you I’m not–”

Tormund rolled his eyes and slammed a fist on the table in exasperation. “I don’t understand you, little crow. Did the Dragon Queen bite off your cock? Is that why you killed her?”

Nalla and Jael chortled with laughter, but Jon’s anger flared. He met Tormund’s steely gaze with his own. “Do not speak of her that way,” he said coldly.

Tormund’s eyes narrowed, and he bit off another chunk of meat. “I see,” he said as he chewed. “You still love her.” Jon’s anger drained out of him and he felt his stomach drop along with his eyes as he resumed staring at his bowl of stew. Tormund grunted. “She was a pretty thing, I’ll allow you that. But she wasn’t a good match for you. Too small. As small as you are, just think how tiny your children would’ve been.”

Jon could hear her voice echoing in his memories. _The dragons are my children. They’re the only children I’ll ever have. Do you understand?_

“Eada on the other hand,” Tormund continued, “she’s a strong one. Nice to look at too. She could give you several strong–”

“Tormund…” Jon interrupted. He knew his friend meant well, that he was trying to help. But Jon wasn’t in the mood to be helped.

Tormund scowled at him and shook his head slowly. “You should’ve never gone south. You still walk around and piss and shit, but they killed you down there.”

It was as accurate a summation as Jon could’ve come up with. Fortunately for him, Nalla and Jael had had enough of the awkward conversation and launched into a story about a time when an exceptionally drunk Tormund had wandered off one night only to return the next morning naked and covered in honey.

They sat for several hours after they’d finished eating, laughing and telling stories, until at last the wildlings rose from the table and readied to leave. Outside, the sun had long since disappeared below the horizon and thousands upon thousands of stars now speckled the night sky, yielding only in magnificence to the power of the waxing gibbous moon.

As Nalla and Jael mounted their horses, Tormund clasped forearms with Jon. “Take care o’ yourself, little crow.”

Jon nodded to his friend. “You as well.”

Tormund released his forearm then gave Jon’s shoulder a playful shove. “Might be I’ll check in on you again. Make sure you’re not dead.” With that, he turned and climbed onto his horse. Once mounted, he looked down at Jon and shrugged. “Or not.” Tormund boomed with laughter and spurred his horse into a trot, with the others falling in line behind him.

Jon watched them depart before reentering his cottage. The fire was burning low, so he tossed on another log, causing sparks to erupt from the smoldering coals. He watched without really seeing as the flame engulfed the fresh log, licking at its edges until they blackened and eventually took up the blaze. The door creaked behind him and Jon turned to see Ghost slinking silently through the opening. The direwolf strolled over to lay himself down at the foot of the bed and looked at Jon expectantly.

“Alright, you win,” he told the direwolf as he found himself suddenly fighting off a yawn. Jon pulled the door closed and stood for a moment eyeing the lock. In the end, he left it undone. If someone really was out to get him, that thin piece of iron would not make a difference. Just the same, he made sure Longclaw was within reach before he retired to bed.

That night he dreamed of a burning city, and a dying queen.


	2. The Hermitic Prince

The days that followed were unseasonably warm and on the fifth day Jon found himself watching the western horizon with some trepidation as black clouds approached. Lightning skittered across the sky followed by the distant rumble of thunder, heralding the coming storm. The humid air hung heavy around him as he closed the horse in its stable and made sure the gate was secure on the pen that housed his handful of goats. He called for Ghost, but the direwolf was nowhere to be found. Having taken what meager precautions he could, he retreated towards his cottage to wait out the storm. The sun wouldn’t set for hours, yet the thick clouds gave the land the appearance of dusk.

Once at his door, Jon tried calling for Ghost one last time, but to no avail. He entered the cottage just as a gust of wind hit, causing the door to slam shut behind him. Jon closed the shutters on the small windows that served as little more that openings to allow in some light, then lit a small lantern and sat himself down at the desk in the corner to resume his reading of the exploits of Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire, Aegon V Targaryen. He’d read the story many times, especially as a child. The idea of a street urchin from Flea Bottom growing up to be Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and an unlikely son becoming king had appealed greatly to the bastard of Winterfell.

Though never in those dozens of childhood readings had he ever even considered the idea that he was reading about the adventures of his great-great-grandfather. Despite growing up in the halls of one of the great lords of Westeros, the Targaryens had always seemed like larger-than-life figures to Jon. They rode dragons, they directed armies, they could be exceedingly kind or exceptionally mad. They did great things, even when sometimes those things were terrible. Little did Jon know he would one day get firsthand experience with all of it.

Another favorite of his had been the stories about the Mad King, Robert’s rebellion, and the Crown Prince, Rhaegar Targaryen. Maester Luwin had instructed all of Eddard Stark’s children on the subject. But those stories had one major advantage over the older ones: there were plenty of people around him that had lived through it. Jon had endlessly pestered Ser Rodrik, Mikken, Hullen, or any of the men-at-arms for bits and pieces of what they remembered. The Crown Prince especially fascinated him. Not simply because of who he was or what he’d done, but because there seemed to be two paradoxical versions of Rhaegar Targaryen. The books and stories told of a kind and generous man, a brave warrior and a beloved leader. The Northmen told of a kidnapper, rapist and murderer.

One day, his pestering of the guardsmen got so bad that Lord Eddard had called him into his solar to ask him if he was trying to conquer the castle by driving away all its protectors. In a fit of impulsiveness, Jon asked him whether Prince Rhaegar had really kidnapped and raped his aunt Lyanna. But unlike the other Northmen, Eddard Stark’s eyes did not fill with venom or spite at the mention of the Prince of Dragonstone, only a profound sadness. _The prince was many things,_ the man he thought to be his father had told him. _I don’t believe there is a man alive who ever had the full measure of him. Just remember, the things men know for certain are not always so certain. Listen to your heart, and you will know the truth of it._

At the time, he hadn’t understood. But he’d had years to reflect since. His parents, his _real_ parents, had loved each other, though only for a short time. Their love had torn the realm asunder and killed them both in its own way. And here he sat, the only remaining manifestation of a love that had killed countless thousands. He had to wonder, was it all worth it?

Outside, the wind continued to batter the walls of his little cabin, dislodging minute bits of dirt and dust from the chinking that held them together. Soon a smattering of fat raindrops announced the storm’s opening salvo. He was just beginning to read about the Tourney at Ashford Meadow when a great peal of thunder exploded nearby, shaking the entire structure around him. Jon heard an urgent scratching at the door and hurried over to open it. Ghost trotted inside and shook himself, spraying flecks of water everywhere.

“Thanks for that,” Jon said with no small amount of sarcasm as he turned back to the door. Before he pulled it closed though, he saw a torrent of rain approaching in a wall as the storm began its attack in earnest. He fastened the door just before the worst of the downpour began lashing against it. Jon turned to see Ghost already lounging by the hearth to dry himself. “You’re getting lazy in your old age,” he told the wolf before returning to his book.

Somewhere around the time Duncan the Tall was defending Tanselle from Prince Aerion, Jon began to feel his eyelids growing heavy. He stretched and shook himself, but still his mind clouded. The worst of the thunder had passed, and the rhythmic pattering of rain played a determined lullaby. The words blurred as his eyes had difficulty focusing, and soon his head collapsed onto his forearms as sleep took him.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept when a crash of thunder startled him awake. Outside, the rain had picked up in intensity again. He was rubbing at his eyes and trying to blink away the cobwebs when he noticed Ghost standing at attention near the door, his teeth bared in a soundless snarl.

“What’s wrong, Ghost?” No sooner had the words left his lips than a heavy pounding sounded at the door. The direwolf crouched lower, ready to spring. Jon felt a rush of adrenaline, his heart racing faster as perspiration began beading on his brow. Perhaps he should have taken Tormund up on his offer after all.

He hurriedly grabbed the sword belt that held Longclaw and fastened it around his waist as another round of banging rattled the door. “ _Hallooo!”_ a deep voice bellowed from the other side. “Is anyone in there?”

Jon loosed Longclaw in its scabbard and approached the door cautiously. There was no point in remaining silent. Whoever was there could surely see the smoke from his fire. “Who goes there?” he called out in response.

“Two humble travelers, if it please,” the voice boomed back, straining to overcome the clamor of the storm. “We seek shelter from this frightful storm. As soon as it abates, we will continue on our way.”

That was a lie if ever Jon had heard one. No one travelled north of the wall save for wildlings. Even the Night’s Watch had never ranged this far north in living memory. Nevertheless, it was useless to hide behind his door. Anyone of sufficient strength would have little trouble breaking it down if motivated to do so. He undid the latch and pushed the door open carefully. Lightning flashed and illuminated the area immediately outside and Jon was somewhat surprised to see that there were indeed only two figures awaiting his pleasure. They were of distinctly different sizes, but both wore dark, heavy cloaks with hoods that shrouded their faces, and he could see two horses laden with packs milling around over by his stable. At first glance, they appeared to be what they claimed, yet the story still strained credibility.

He made certain both travelers could see the hilt of Longclaw as he spoke, “Enter then, friends. It is a dreadful night to be out in the open.”

The one who had spoken entered first, a tall, broad man, he was forced to duck his head and turn sideways to fit through the door. His much smaller companion slid through after him and Jon closed the door behind them.

No sooner had the latch closed than the big man let out a startled shout. “Lord’s mercy, what is that thing?!”

Jon turned to find the man with his back pressed against the wall as Ghost sniffed at him with his teeth still bared. “Ghost, to me,” he said sharply. The direwolf backed away slowly, without removing his gaze from the man. The smaller of the two seemed to take no notice of the wolf as he passed, and Ghost eventually sat himself down by Jon’s feet. “Apologies,” Jon said while fighting to hold back a grin. The wildlings were all used to Ghost, and he’d almost forgotten how much fun it could be when an unsuspecting person met a direwolf for the first time. He cleared his throat and continued, “This is Ghost, my direwolf.”

The big man still wore his hood, but Jon could clearly see the look of alarm painted on his clean-shaven face. “A direwolf? I had never thought to see such a beast; it certainly looks as though he’s seen his share of fights.”

“He has,” Jon sighed. “Though they were more my fights than his, he often paid the price for them.”

“Aye,” the big man said gravely, “that often seems to be the way of it.” He pulled his hood back, revealing a fully bald scalp. In fact, the only hair on any kind on the man’s head was a pair of eyebrows so light in color as to be barely visible against his pale skin. “I am called Myrdos, of the free city of Lys. My companion is Toleno. We thank you for your hospitality.”

Jon inclined his head in a sign of respect. “You are most welcome. My name is Jon.” He retreated to the far wall and sat himself on the edge of his bed, making sure to position himself so that he could draw Longclaw quickly if needed. “Please, be seated,” he gestured to the wooden bench by the table, and as Myrdos began to sit, he continued, “and then tell me what you’re really doing here.”

The big man paused, then dropped himself the rest of the way onto the bench with a light chuckle. His silent companion remained standing nearby, dark eyes watching him from beneath the hood he still wore. _He can’t weigh a third of what the other does, yet I’ll wager he’s the more dangerous of the two._

The big man’s voice was a mixture of mirth and curiosity. “And what makes you believe that we are not as we’ve said?”

Jon hunched forward, crossing his arms and placing his elbows on his knees. “Only wildlings travel up here, and you’re not wildlings.”

“Neither, does it seem, are you.”

“I’m not traveling, now am I?” Jon glanced back and forth between the two. Myrdos wore a sardonically bemused expression, but it was impossible to read the other. All he could make out of this Toleno’s features were a jutting chin and a hooked nose, and those piercing black eyes that never seemed to blink.

The big man from Lys shrugged carelessly and leaned his elbows back on the table behind him. “As you wish. It was a poor ruse, I admit. Though in my defense, there were not many you were like to believe, nor would you believe the real reason we are here.”

“Try me.”

An oily smile spread across the Lyseni’s lips. “We’ll come to that. But there are things I would know first.”

Jon set his jaw and drew a measured breath. “And why should I answer any questions of yours?”

The Lyseni narrowed his indigo eyes and fixed Jon with a smirk. “Because while you may be done with world of men, the world of men, it seems, is not done with you.”

Jon’s brow knitted in annoyance. He was fast losing his patience with these games. “I’m not one for riddles. Speak plainly or do not speak at all.”

A look of what might have been contempt flashed across the big man’s face but was gone just as quickly as it came. “Very well. There is power in king’s blood. And where there is power, there are those that would seek to use it.” Mrydos’ eyes were doing their best to bore a hole right through Jon. “And even the great northern wilderness is not big enough for a man such as Aegon Targaryen to disappear.”

Deep down, he’d sensed the truth of it from the moment Tormund and his friends had arrived, but it didn’t make hearing that name any easier. Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again and meeting the other’s gaze with resolve. “And you’re here for my blood then?”

The Lyseni had the high cheekbones and imperious features common to his city, and just then he appeared as smug as any dragonlord of old Valyria. “In a manner of speaking.” Jon felt his sword hand tighten reflexively, stretching out the old scars. “But while others would seek to remove that blood from your veins, I would prefer to keep it where it is.”

Jon studied his guest intently but could find no hint of deception in the man. But even if he were telling the complete truth, the mere fact that he did not want to kill him did not mean he was a friend. Still, he found that the prospect of avoiding an immediate fight offered some small relief. Jon had thought himself past caring whether he lived or died, but the instinct for survival is a powerful one.

“Ask your questions, if you must,” he said with a dismissive wave, “I doubt I could stop you.”

Myrdos drew himself up and looked down his nose at Jon. “Tell me about Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jon’s eyes hardened, and he felt a pit form in his stomach. “That’s not a question,” he said through clenched teeth.

The Lyseni’s lip curled into a half smile. “I said that there were things I would know. You are the one that stipulated that I ask questions.”

More word games. Jon had always found them maddening. When combined with the choice of topic, Jon found it difficult to keep his voice even. “Why do you want to know about her?”

Myrdos spread his hands in a humble gesture inconsistent with his overall demeanor. “There are those in my faith that believed that she was the Lord’s chosen one.”

“You’re a priest of R’hllor?” Jon asked with some disbelief. He’d seen red priests before, and this man did not look like one.

The man’s haughty expression had returned. “A priest? No. A supplicant? Yes. Many of us believed that Daenerys was sent to lead us in the Great War.”

Jon found himself unconsciously grinding his teeth. “Aye, and she did. But we won the Great War. It’s over.”

Myrdos leaned forward. “And you believe that simply because the Night King was destroyed, the Great Other has forsaken his quest to tear down this world?” Jon was taken aback at the fervor in the man’s voice. “It ebbs and it flows, but make no mistake, the Great War does _not_ end.”

Jon ran a hand over his beard in thought as he considered the man’s words. He’d been raised to believe in the Old Gods and never had much patience for zealots. But he’d seen the power wielded by those that followed the Lord of Light. It was the only reason he was alive. Whether that power came from a god or some other source, he could not say.

“Suppose I believe you,” he said cautiously. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here or why you’re asking about… her.”

The passion receded from the big man’s voice and it took on a calculating tone. “There are others in my faith that believe _you_ are the Lord’s Chosen.” Jon felt the blood drain from his face. “Yet here you sit, wasting away at the ends of the earth. I know you killed her. I even know why you did it. What I’m here to find out is if there’s enough left of you to be of use in the wars to come.”

Jon could feel his pulse quickening along with his breath. He’d never been one to run from a fight, but these wars of prophecy had taken almost everything from him. He didn’t know what more he had to give. “My fighting days are done,” he said with great effort.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Toleno had been so silent and still that Jon had almost forgotten he was there. But suddenly he turned towards the big Lyseni. “Epagon zirȳla,” he said in a harsh voice.

Myrdos glared daggers at his companion for a moment, but eventually relented and turned back to Jon. “After you killed Daenerys,” he began, his voice full of a black humor, “you came up here and the throne passed to your brother, or more accurately, your cousin. Why did you never press your claim?”

Fatigue washed over him, and Jon rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and index finger. “The Unsullied wanted to execute me for what I did. I was put on trial and the nobles of Westeros were forced to choose a king to judge me. I could not act as my own judge and if they had freed me it would have started a war.”

“But,” Myrdos insisted, “after the Unsullied and Dothraki left, you could have–”

“I could have what?” Jon snapped. “Rode south and taken the throne from Bran? I didn’t want it. I _never_ wanted it. I told anyone that would listen, for all the good it did me.” He buried his face in his hands. “All I wanted was her,” he finished bitterly.

Silence reigned within the cabin while outside the rain continued to pound out its drumbeat against anything that it could.

At long last, Myrdos spoke. “She was your aunt.”

“She was.” Jon sniffed as he raised his head, trying to blink away the stinging in his eyes. “If I’d known that before I met her, things might have been different. But love is more powerful than reason.”

The big man’s face conveyed no emotion. His gaze flicked briefly to his companion, then back to Jon. “Do you regret betraying her?”

Jon huffed out a rueful laugh. “Why do you think I’m here?”

Myrdos nodded slowly. He opened his mouth to say more, but before he could utter a sound, Toleno spoke in his guttural tone, once again using a language that Jon did not recognize. “Henujagon īlva, Myrdos.”

The Lyseni started and his gaze snapped over to the small figure near him. “Ñuha dāria, daor!” he exclaimed. “Īlon ȳdra daor gīmigon lo kostas sagon pāstan.”

Toleno made a curt gesture with his right hand. “Kesan daor epagon arlī."

Myrdos rose reluctantly and fixed an angry glare at Jon. Without another word, he pulled his hood over his head and stepped past Toleno. He reached the door in only two strides of his long legs, pushed it open and disappeared out into the rain.

Toleno followed him to the door and pulled it shut. Jon observed with wary curiosity as he set the latch and pushed the lock into place. His task complete, the petite figure glided to the center of the room and knelt, extending a thin hand out from the voluminous robes he wore. Ghost stirred, and Jon watched in amazement as the direwolf slunk forward to sniff carefully at the pale white fingers. Ghost hesitated for a moment, then Jon’s mouth fell open as the wolf began licking Toleno’s palm.

Jon rose from his bed and staggered forward a step almost without realizing it. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice full of wonder.

The slight figure gave Ghost a scratch behind the ear, then straightened, hands moving up to pull back his hood. A shock of long black hair surrounded what might have been the ugliest face Jon had ever seen. The jutting chin and hooked nose he’d made out earlier were accompanied by overly large ears and wide, deep set eyes, and his red, flaking skin was rife with pockmarks.

Toleno loosened his cloak around the neck, and for the first time Jon could see that he was wearing a necklace of some sort. It was made from a dark metal, wrought in the shape of elongated hexagons. At the center hexagon, located at his throat sat a bright red jewel that seemed to glow with an internal luminescence.

Toleno reached behind his head and unfastened the necklace, slowly removing it from around his neck and dropping it to the floor. Jon stared at it for a moment, unsure of just what was happening. The red jewel began to dim, and with it, Toleno’s visage altered. His ears shrank, his nose straightened, and the jutting jaw took on a more delicate curve. Even his figure began to change. His skin smoothed, his hair grew lighter, and the eyes shifted from black to–

Jon’s heart lodged in his throat and he found it impossible to breathe.

Violet. They were violet.

Jon felt himself collapse to his knees, tears beginning to stream down his face as he watched the transformation continue, each minute change slowly reconstructing the face that had dominated his dreams more than any other over the last five years. He took in the slender frame, the pale skin, the flowing, silver-gold hair, but most of all, those mesmerizing pools of deep violet. Yet despite the evidence presented by his eyes, his mind still refused to believe it.

For a moment, he dared not move or speak, lest he shatter the vision before him. When at last he spoke, he was only able to muster a single word, his voice barely a whisper.

“Dany…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a request for translations of the High Valyrian in this chapter, so here it is:  
> "Epagon zirȳla" = "Ask him." (or her, zirȳla is gender neutral)  
> “Henujagon īlva, Myrdos.” = "Leave us, Myrdos."  
> “Ñuha dāria, daor!” = "My Queen, no!"  
> “Īlon ȳdra daor gīmigon lo kostas sagon pāstan.” = We don't know if he can be trusted.  
> “Kesan daor epagon arlī." = "I will not ask again."


	3. The Queen of Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me longer to finish than I wanted, but as I'm sure you'll see, it was difficult to write. It's also almost as long as the first two chapters combined, so I hope the extra content helps make up for the delay. Hope you enjoy!

“You look awful.” Daenerys Targaryen had not known how she would feel upon seeing the man who was her nephew, had been her lover, and was most recently her murderer. She’d played the scenario out in her mind countless times on the journey from Braavos. Anger, joy, sorrow, relief, pain, longing, hatred, love… all of these she had considered as possibilities. All of these had indeed rushed through her in a tumult when he’d first opened that door. But the one emotion she had not considered was the one that now dominated all the others.

Pity.

It was a strange sensation to be sure, to pity the man that had taken your life. Daenerys wondered if she were perhaps the first person to ever feel it. After all, most people slain by the hand of another simply stayed that way.

“W- what?” The shock was still evident on his face and in his voice. Daenerys moved closer to him and lowered herself to the floor, tucking her legs in and leaning on one hand. She reached out with her other and placed it lightly on his knee.

“I said, you look awful.” He appeared… less… than he’d been before. He was slightly older, his clothes were shabbier, his hair and beard longer and poorly groomed, and his figure more gaunt. Yet had those been the only differences, he would have nevertheless still closely resembled the Jon Snow that she’d known. But he didn’t. It was his eyes. They were… hollow. Haunted.

He lifted his gaze from where her hand rested on his knee and met hers. His eyes entreated her, as if silently asking the question: _that’s all you have to say?_

Dany took a slow breath. “Ask. I know you want to.”

“How?” he breathed, still barely able to manage more than whisper.

“How did you come back after you were stabbed in the heart?” She heard Jon gasp softly, then he nodded in understanding. “My child carried me east to Volantis. It was the High Priest Benerro himself that raised me. I awoke in the temple, surrounded by red priests and the Fiery Hand.”

“How long were you…” he trailed off, unable to complete the question.

“I don’t know.”

His lip quivered as he took an unsteady breath. His eyes were anguish itself, bloodshot and glistening with tears. “I’m so sorry, Dany,” he blurted, his voice at least half a sob. “I didn’t– I didn’t want–”

The guilt he’d accumulated over the years rushed out of him as he began weeping uncontrollably. He looked ready to break under the weight of it. Dany’s eyes swam with tears at the sight of it, and in an act of pure impulse she moved towards him, pulling him close so that his head rested against her chest. She cradled him gently as his shoulders shook, resting her cheek against the crown of his head and breathing in the scent of him. The same scent that had once driven her heart into girlish fits of palpitations.

Dany squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to focus. It had taken years for her to finally reconcile herself to what she’d done on the day King’s Landing fell and what she would have done if left unchecked. At first, her rage had sustained her, thoughts of revenge consumed her. But the things she’d seen since… Her journey had taken her through hell itself, from death to life, from the ethereal to the corporeal, to the shores of madness and back. She knew what she had to tell him. Yet it took every bit of resolve she could muster to finally give voice to the words.

“You did the right thing,” she said softly.

Jon recoiled from her, scrabbling backwards until the frame of his bed blocked any further retreat. His face was bathed in disbelief.

“I betrayed you…” he said hoarsely.

“I betrayed myself,” she replied.

“I… I _murdered_ you…” he choked out.

“You _saved_ me,” she insisted. “From what I was becoming. From what I would have become.”

“No,” he shook his head violently, “no, you should be cursing me. You should– you should _hate_ me.”

Dany focused her will towards fighting the rising swell of emotion within her. “I did for a while.” The days following her resurrection were now only a blur. Her fury and her pain had known no bounds. So close… she’d been so close… “I might have done the same to you that you did to those that took your life. I might have done the same to everyone in Westeros had I the chance. But my child refused to carry me back. And even his mother cannot force a dragon to go where he does not want to.”

Jon stared at her in silence, a contradictory mix of emotions boiling just beneath his skin. He seemed in some way relieved at what she would have done to him and horrified at what she would have done to everyone else.

“You see?” she said, her voice tinged with sadness. “You did the right thing.” Dany rose and stepped over to the bed, then sank down to sit next to him, her back leaned against the bedframe. “I could not see it,” she said wistfully. “I could not see what I’d become. Not even when you begged me to. Not even when granted a second chance at life. My pursuit of justice would have filled the world with injustice. My quest to destroy tyranny would’ve seen me become the greatest tyrant the world has ever known.”

Minutes ticked by in silence as Dany reflected and Jon processed what she’d said.

“What changed?” he managed at last.

Dany took a slow, calming breath. Reliving those days was painful for her, yet she forced it upon herself daily. She could not risk going down that path again. “I suspect you do not get much news up here,” she said cautiously. “Do you know of what happened in Volantis?”

Jon gave her a sidelong glance and furrowed his brow in thought. “Sam mentioned something once… a slave revolt? He didn’t have many details. It must have been three or four years ago. I didn’t see him again for half a year and we did not discuss it again.”

_A slave revolt._ _If only it had been that simple._ Daenerys steeled herself and began wading through the old memories, the old wounds. “For months after I was brought back, I was the guest of the red priests in Volantis. Although it would probably be more accurate to say I was their prisoner. I was not allowed to leave the temple. For my own protection, they assured me. I beseeched Benerro to return me to Westeros, but all he would say is that the Lord of Light had other plans for me.”

“And Drogon?”

Dany sighed. “There is… a connection between us. As I grew more wild, so did he. I saw little of him, and when he did come, it usually led to death and panic in the city.” There were times when her child’s wrath had been enough to frighten even her, despite the perturbations of her deepening madness. More than one member of the Fiery Hand had ended as a meal for him. “And always he refused to carry me west. The triarchs offered mountains of gold to anyone that could slay the beast that was terrorizing them. They never knew the reason he kept returning.”

“The triarchs didn’t know you were there?” Jon had been recovering himself slowly as they’d talked. Though he was still clearly shaken, she could sense his fortitude returning.

“No one outside the temple knew,” Dany replied. As wild as Drogon had become, he somehow knew to only visit the temple during the black of night. “In this, I suppose the priests really were protecting me. Doubtless the triarchs would have stormed the temple immediately had they known.”

Much of those months was now lost to her memory, save for the pervasive feelings of impotent rage and bottomless depression. But when she closed her eyes, she could still see clear as day the way the tattooed flames had contorted around Benerro’s mouth when he’d finally told her what was coming.

“The Lord’s reckoning,” he had called it in his high voice.

“Benerro sent for me one day,” she continued in an almost mechanical tone. Those days felt so distant now, as though she was reciting something that had happened to someone else. “He’d seen a vision in the flames. He told me the time of the triarchs was coming to an end and wanted my help.” Dany could still remember the excitement she felt. At long last she would once again realize her purpose. Or so she’d thought. “There were four or five slaves for every freedman in Volantis. This was my chance to break the wheel for them. For the first time since I was raised, I was happy. I dreamed of leading them through all of the free cities, tearing down those in power as we went.”

“What did Benerro want from you?” Jon’s voice was strained, her story clearly having struck an uncomfortable chord with its similarities to her actions surrounding the siege of King’s Landing.

“He wanted to present me to the faithful as the champion of the Lord of Light to incite them to rise up against the triarchs. And, of course, he wanted Drogon.” The path to her destiny had seemed so plain. What a fool she’d been. “We prepared for months. When the next election was held, our influence allowed the tigers to control the triarchy for the first time in three hundred years. They had always favored spreading Volantene influence by conquest rather than trade. When Malaquo Maegyr lead an army to attack Lys, we struck.”

“Wait,” Jon interjected, “if Benerro presented you to the people, then how did no one hear of it? Surely rumors would have spread to Westeros of Daenerys Targaryen’s return in Volantis.”

Dany closed her eyes and could still see the chaos, the fire and blood throughout the streets of the city. Never had the words of her house been so real to her. “Because there is no more Volantis.”

Her words hung in the air like the stench of a rotting corpse. She could’ve sworn Jon shuddered. Dany steeled herself and forced the memories to the front of her mind. To forget would be bliss, but she could not allow it, no matter how much it salted the wounds on her soul.

“We had the element of surprise and the numbers,” she said with difficulty. “But they had the better equipment, and a bed slave is no match for a trained warrior.” Wholesale slaughter had erupted all throughout the mouth of the Rhoyne, from the Black Walls to Fishmonger’s Square, and Drogon’s flames had burned master and slave alike. “Still, by the end of the second day the two remaining triarchs were dead and we controlled what was left of the city. But then Malaquo returned with the Volantene army to avenge their fallen brothers.”

Jon shifted nervously, sensing where the story was heading, but remained silent.

“They took us unawares. The slaves were not much for military planning and had set no lookouts. We might have been cut down to the last of us, but Drogon appeared out of nowhere. He burned their ships and many of the soldiers too. But then–” her voice faltered, and tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

Jon turned towards her, both of his hands suddenly grasping one of hers urgently. “Dany? What happened?” he asked, his voice full of desperate apprehension.

“An arrow–” her voice cracked, and the tears slid down her cheeks. Some unnamed archer or crossbowman had fired the luckiest, (or unluckiest, depending on your point of view) shot of his life, which had pierced Drogon’s left eye. Her child’s scream had seared itself upon her heart. She’d felt physical pain at the sound of it.

Dany found herself suddenly engulfed by Jon’s arms as he embraced her fiercely. They sat that way for several minutes, rocking softly as she wept.

“Drogon,” Jon eventually whispered, “is he…?”

“He lives,” Dany croaked amidst her tears, “though I did not know it at the time.” She could still see Drogon struggling to fly from the city, screaming with rage and pain. “The arrow struck him in the eye. Though it lodged in the socket. Had it gone straight through, it likely would have killed him.”

Jon held her a while longer as her sniffling abated. As her mind calmed, she became acutely aware of his warmth, and the tenderness of his embrace. No one had held her like that since… well, since he had, all those years ago.

Dany cleared her throat, suddenly frantic for a distraction. “Do you, um, have any water?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could.

“Oh.” Her voice seemingly called Jon back to reality as well. He released her quickly and stood. “Yes, of course.” He strode over to the corner of the cottage to retrieve a pitcher.

As he filled two cups, Dany stood and stretched away the soreness that had resulted from sitting on the floor for so long. The room now felt overly warm, so she undid the remaining ties of her cloak and pulled it over her head, revealing the lightweight leather travel tunic she wore underneath. She dropped the cloak lightly onto the back of a chair near the hearth and ran her fingers through her silvery hair, fluffing it out and finishing with a shake of her head.

Dany looked over to find Jon watching her, his eyes hooded and dark. The intensity of his gaze sparked a slight flutter in her stomach, so she moved swiftly to sit in the chair where she’d placed her cloak. “I thought maybe we could sit here instead of on the floor.”

Jon huffed out a laugh and approached with one arm extended, offering her one of the cups of water. She took it gratefully, their fingers grazing together lightly as he passed it over. “Please excuse my manners,” he said as he pulled a second chair over to the hearth and sat. “I don’t get many visitors here.”

She eyed him over the lip of her cup as she took a swallow of water. The cool liquid felt good as it ran down her throat. She hadn’t realized how parched she was. “So,” she said deliberately, “shall we continue?”

Jon nodded somberly. “What became of Drogon?” he prodded gently before taking a drink from his own cup.

“It was many months before I saw him again. I can’t tell you precisely how long.” She took another sip of water to steady herself. “Those were the darkest days of my life.” A solemn look of understanding passed over Jon, but Dany knew he couldn’t comprehend everything. Not yet. “With Drogon gone,” she went on, “they held the advantage. Our greater numbers were not enough to overcome their training and discipline. It was a massacre. Malaquo had no interest in taking prisoners. A slave that turns on his master will do so again if given the chance.”

The hopelessness of their situation was evident to Jon, whose face made plain the unspoken question of just how Dany had survived. At the time, she hadn’t expected to. A paltry few hundred survivors had taken refuge in the ruins of the temple, surrounded by nearly two thousands of Malaquo’s fighting men. As night approached, she could hear the soldiers’ taunts, promising them all painful and messy deaths.

“They surrounded the last of us in the temple,” she told him. “They could have ended it right then, but they took pleasure in our fear. We went to sleep that night believing that the next sunrise would be our last.” Dany hadn’t slept though. She’d paced throughout the ruins endlessly, torn between grief over Drogon and disbelief that this could be her end.

Her madness was heavy on her that night. At times her fury ran hot as she cursed her fate, then she would suddenly be sobbing, and still other times she bargained with the shadows. She’d felt ready to tear her own hair out when one of the shadows answered her.

_“I warned you not to trust those that would seek your dragons,”_ a familiar voice had said. Dany had stopped short, though perhaps it was another sign of her instability that the voice did not surprise her. _“You are in peril, Daenerys, and not from Malaquo or Benerro. From yourself. Remember, to go forward you must go back. To touch the light, you must pass beneath the shadow.”_

Dany had made no reply. Her questions to Quaithe had never yielded anything beyond more and more cryptic responses. Her brief appearance had calmed Dany though, certain that somehow her destiny would protect her.

“The next morning didn’t bring an attack, though,” she said to Jon. “When we ventured to look out, we saw what was left of the army kneeling in the rubble, having given up their swords and spears.”

Jon sat forward in surprise which was reminiscent of the shock experienced by everyone in the temple. Everyone but her. “What happened?” he asked, the confusion thick in his voice.

Dany hadn’t known _what_ would happen, only that _something_ would. “Malaquo, all the remaining officers, and even many of the soldiers had been slain during the night.”

Jon’s eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth twitched. “How?” Though he asked the obligatory question, he did not appear to be looking forward to the answer.

“The survivors whispered about shadows with men’s faces. They could not be fought, and they killed with a single stroke.” At the time, Dany hadn’t known much about the powers wielded by the shadowbinders of Asshai, she’d only felt vindication, and a renewed confidence in her fate. It hadn’t lasted for long.

“Shadows that kill with a single stroke?” The notion clearly disturbed Jon. If he knew half of what Dany did, it would have only disturbed him more. Soon enough she would have to speak to him of the shadowbinders. But that time had not yet come.

“Benerro claimed it was the Lord of Light’s wrath upon those that would attack his faithful.” Zealot though he was, even Benerro knew there was more to it than that. Yet as always, he held to his faith. _Mankind may have done the deed,_ he’d told her in one of their more heated arguments, _but mankind is the instrument through which our Lord touches this world._ “We rounded up those that remained and placed them in shackles. Benerro promised them the Lord’s mercy, and he gave it to them. In his own way.”

Jon sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I expect that mercy involved a rather large pyre.”

Dany’s eyebrows raised. Apparently, Jon understood the methods of the red priests better than she thought. “A sacrifice, he called it. To honor the Lord of Light for our…” she closed her eyes and shook her head sadly, “…victory.”

“Some victory,” Jon said through clenched teeth.

Dany looked at him with something near to envy in her eyes. He’d always seemed so firm in his convictions, so sure of what was right and what was wrong. Dany used to know what that felt like. She wasn’t sure she would ever know the feeling again.

“I thought it was justified.” Jon gave her a sharp look, but she refused to wilt under his gaze despite the shame she now felt. “At first. I hadn’t looked at who these men were. I presumed they were mercenaries, and indeed, many of them were.” Jon’s expression remained stern, but uncertainty now tugged at the edges of it. “But as they were leading some of the prisoners to the pyre, something caught my eye. One of them wore the spiked cap of the Unsullied.”

Jon frowned, and Dany could see the question forming on his lips before he asked it. “Not one that had followed me. But I knew this man had not chosen his fate. So, I went to inspect the rest of the prisoners. There were only a handful more Unsullied, but half or more bore a slave’s tattoo of some kind.” Dany could feel her heart constricting at the memory. “I sought out Benerro; I told him the slaves that had fought against us needed to be freed, to be given a chance. I pleaded with him, but he would not be swayed.”

The emotions were returning in a torrent now along with her memories, but Dany forced herself to continue. _I must never forget._

“I watched them burn,” she said in a hollow voice. “All of them. And I could not distinguish between the screams of the mercenaries and those of the slaves. I could not tell the charred bodies of the innocent from those of the guilty.” Dany squeezed her eyes shut and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “It was only then I saw what I’d become.”

Dany could hear Jon’s chair creak as he moved and felt his hand cover hers. “I’m sorry, Dany,” he said quietly.

Dany turned her hand over and meshed her fingers together with his. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she told him as she gazed earnestly into his dark eyes. “What I did at King’s Landing…” She could no longer remember why she had begun burning the city rather than simply flying to the Red Keep to kill Cersei, only that it had somehow seemed necessary. “I never went down to see. Perhaps if I had…” Dany knew that she would never, _could_ never, be forgiven for the atrocity she had committed that day. Her only hope for any sort of forgiveness was this. “I know I gave you no choice but to do what you did.” She gripped his hand tightly. “I’m sorry.”

Dany held her breath as Jon remained still for what seemed like an eternity. At long last, his eyes softened, and he nodded once. Relief flooded through her and she was able to breathe again.

“We all made mistakes,” Jon said in a tired voice.

Dany’s brow knitted together. “Mistakes?” she asked incredulously. “You did not slaughter thousands of innocents.”

“There’s plenty of blame to go around,” Jon’s gaze was just as earnest as hers had been, “and I can’t help but feel we drove you to it. All of us. Sansa seemed to hate you from the moment you arrived in Winterfell, Tyrion thought he could be loyal to both you and his family, Varys tried to supplant you, Cersei murdered your best friend in front of you, and I–” he paused, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, “I wasn’t there for you. When you needed me most, I pulled away.”

Dany could well remember the longing she’d felt for him. Viserys had instructed her in their family’s history, and there was a time when she thought she might marry her brother. So, it had indeed been a shock when she’d learned Jon’s true parentage, but it hadn’t lessened her desire for him in the slightest. He, on the other hand, had been conflicted. She’d gone to him several times, and when they kissed, she could still feel the passion emanating from his lips. Which made it all the more painful when he ultimately pulled back.

Dany didn’t know where they stood now. _All I wanted was her,_ he’d told Myrdos. But that was before he knew that she was alive and may have just been his guilt speaking. Jon hadn’t seemed like someone that was ready to love again. You wouldn’t disappear to the ends of the earth if you were. And that was to say nothing of her. With everything she’d done, there was a part of her that believed she didn’t deserve to love again, and yet another part of her that didn’t believe she was capable of it. _Love may be more powerful than reason._ _But is it more powerful than death?_

“As you say, we all made mistakes,” she murmured. “But the fault is mine. I’ll carry it with me always. I _must_.”

Jon nodded solemnly. His expression made it plain that he wished he could carry some of the burden for her but knew that he couldn’t. She loved him a little for that.

The cabin fell silent again for some time, save for the now distant rolling of thunder. Dany shut her eyes and forcibly cleared her mind, concentrating all her attention down to a single point. It was a ritual she had begun practicing regularly to help maintain calm and focus. Dany had spent years training both her mind and body, but she could never know if it was enough.

Jon’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand and the single point exploded. Dany’s eyes startled open and she glanced over at him. He appeared somewhat abashed, but his gaze did not falter. How easy it had once been for her to get lost in those dark eyes of his. She would’ve given anything to–

Ghost’s cold, wet nose poked itself into the gap where their hands met. Dany and Jon recoiled in surprise as the direwolf looked back and forth between them expectantly. Dany giggled and reached out to scratch him behind his one good ear. After a moment, Jon relented and rubbed him under the chin. Once satisfied, Ghost stretched himself out between their chairs with a sigh.

“So, uh” Jon coughed awkwardly, “what happened after Volantis?”

Dany found it difficult not to grimace. As bad as the months after she awoke in Volantis had been, they were nothing compared to the months that followed the destruction of the city. “Were you…” she began tentatively, “different… after Melisandre brought you back?”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “I was. Though it’s difficult to say how. It was like… a piece of me was missing.” Dany nodded slowly, she knew the feeling all too well. “I used to think it would come back, but…” he shook his head, “I just had to learn to live without it.”

“You’ve heard the saying, I’m sure.” Dany said. “Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.”

Jon visibly shuddered. “I’ve heard it, yes.”

“Ser Barristan Selmy did not reveal his identity to me until he had observed my character. He thought he knew how my coin had landed, and so did I. But we were both wrong.” Dany felt suddenly cold and hugged her tunic tighter to herself. “After Volantis burned and I saw myself for what I was, I shattered. I would rave constantly; my emotions could shift in an instant from desperate wailing to uncontrollable fury. I knew I was mad, and there was nothing I could do about it.”

Jon wore a pained look but remained silent.

“It’s a terrible thing not to trust your own mind. Eventually I lost all hope, and all I yearned for was an escape.” As much as she wanted to, Dany would never forget the emptiness she’d felt, like an endless black maw, pulling her inexorably downwards.

Jon’s expression became troubled. “Dany, you didn’t…” he whispered.

“To touch the light, you must pass beneath the shadow,” Dany said with a quiet reverence. “And so it was for me. The priests had given me sweetsleep to help with my fits. A pinch will grant a night of sleep. Three will cause a sleep that does not end. I saved up my doses, and then I slept.”

Jon stared at her, stunned beyond words.

“I can’t describe what I felt when I woke. The priests had simply raised me again. They watched me more closely after that, but I would find ways. I drowned myself in my bath, I used a blunted butter knife to do this,” She pulled back her sleeve to reveal a thick scar on her left wrist, “and still more. And every time, they would bring me back. You can’t imagine what it’s like. Unable to live, unable to die.” Dany hung her head. “If there is such a thing as hell, then I was in it.”

Jon’s face was a mask of horror, every muscle in his body straining. Even Ghost was fixated on her, his eyes wary.

Dany smiled weakly. “But in that hell, I found my salvation. The Lord of Light is not without his mercies it seems, though he exacts a terrible price for them. Like you, a piece of me seemed to fall away every time they brought me back. Only holes exist where treasured memories once were, and there are dear friends of mine whose faces I can no longer see. But to cut out an infection, you must remove healthy flesh along with the corrupt, and this is what it cost to scour the madness from me.” Dany let out a breath after she finished; reliving her torment always left her exhausted.

It took Jon some time to find his voice. “I don’t really know what to say, Dany. That sounds unbearable.”

“I’m sure there are those who would say I deserved it.” Jon opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a gesture of her hand. “It’s okay, you don’t have to defend me. Sometimes I think I deserved it too.” Dany stared into the fireplace, watching without really seeing as the flames danced and the coals crackled and popped. She’d always believed that fire was hers. She hadn’t known just how right she was. Fire brought light and warmth, but it could also consume and destroy. “I can’t change what I did. But I have to believe there’s a reason I’m still here. And all I can do now is try to do whatever good I can before the end.”

Jon looked at her, and Dany thought she could see a measure of respect reflected in his eyes. It made her feel better about herself than she thought it would or should. When you were responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands, it was necessary to insulate yourself from what others thought of you. But it appeared she still cared what at least one person thought.

Jon turned and gave a suspicious glace at the cabin door. “And what about this Myrdos?”

“Yes,” Dany sighed, “I supposed it’s time I told you why I’m here.” There was a time she would’ve likely killed Jon had she seen him. Then for years she simply had not wanted to see him. More recently though, she had just been avoiding it, even when it became clear she would need to seek him out. She hoped she hadn’t waited too long. “I’m here for the same reason you first came to me on Dragonstone. I need your help. And, it seems, you need mine as well.”

Jon’s forehead wrinkled. “Why do I need your help?”

Dany eschewed making a sarcastic comment about his isolated surroundings and said matter-of-factly, “We are not the only ones looking for you, Jon Snow. And I can’t say what will happen if they find you.”

Jon’s countenance turned grim. “Tormund visited me several days ago with some friends. They said there were men in dark robes and masks asking about me at Castle Black.”

_Shadowbinders. It is as I feared._ “There may be more besides them. I honestly can’t tell you who all the players are and their motivations. Benerro and the red priests have their own agenda. Myrdos and I play the roles of devoted followers of the Lord of Light, but I have my own intentions, and I suspect he does as well.”

“And what could I do to help?” Jon asked doubtfully.

Dany again eschewed a sarcastic comment, though this time about her own state of loneliness. “Not be in the hands of our enemies, for starters,” she said dryly. “Benerro says you are needed, and for once I am inclined to agree with him. There are things at work here that I can’t fully explain, but your blood, _our_ blood, is important.”

Jon ran a hand over half his face and seemed to stare off into the distance. He took several slow breaths before turning back to her, his expression determined. “Where are we headed?”

“Where else? The ruins of Volantis. We leave as soon as possible.”

Jon nodded. “At first light, then.”

Dany didn’t like the idea of giving Jon’s other pursuers additional time to find them but inclined her head reluctantly in agreement. “There is… one more thing I need from you.” Her hand moved to a hidden pocket in her tunic, and she thumbed nervously at the hard metal object contained within.

Jon watched her with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation at the seriousness of her tone. “What is it?”

Dany withdrew the object from her pocket and held it in the palms of her hands. Jon paled when he saw it and immediately stood bolt upright. He stared in revulsion for a few moments, then shoved his chair aside and began pacing back-and-forth across the cabin.

“Jon,” Dany said gently as she rose from her chair. When he didn’t stop pacing, she stepped closer. “Jon,” she repeated, more insistently this time.

Finally, she caught him by the elbow, and he rounded on her. “You cannot mean it!” his voice was part disbelief, part pleading, and all agitation.

“I do. I hate to ask it of you, but if I should start showing signs of madness again…”

Jon stepped close to her, his eyes full of intensity. “I would do anything for you. But not that. Not again.”

Dany regarded him with tenderness. “Jon,” she said sadly, “you’re the only one I can trust to do what’s necessary. I pray it doesn’t come to it. But if it does, I don’t know if I can–” her voice caught in her throat, tears welling in her eyes as she silently begged him. “Please…” she finished with a whisper.

Jon’s arm rose mechanically, and Dany placed the dagger in his waiting hand. “You are my queen,” he said in a strangled voice, “now, and always.”

After everything she’d done, Dany hadn’t thought it possible, but there could be no mistaking it. He still loved her, with all his heart. Almost before she realized it she was moving towards him, going up on her toes as their lips collided. At first it was like kissing a stunned statue, but soon enough the dagger clattered to the floor and Jon’s arms wrapped around her, clutching her tight against him. Her eyes drifted closed, and her mouth opened instinctively in response to his. The room seemed to spin around her as their tongues slid together, and Dany found it impossible to maintain a rational thought in her head.

Dany could feel something building inside her as they kissed. Something she had not felt for years. She wanted to push it away, to bury it deep with all the feelings she could no longer afford, but it would not be denied. She’d had so little joy in her life for such a long time… did she dare to hope for more than just a life of penitence? Could there possibly be some happiness left for her in this world? There was only one way to find out.

With a great effort, Dany broke away from him and took a step back. Their eyes remained locked as they both stood, panting breathlessly.

A questioning look passed over him and Dany’s lip curled into a smirk. “Now, and always?” she asked in a husky voice.

Jon’s eyes answered for him even before he gave a single resolute nod. Dany loosened the laces on her tunic and shrugged the garment off onto the floor. He drank in the sight of her, a palpable desire radiating off him.

“Then keep your queen warm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, wow, life got dark, didn't it? This chapter is, without a doubt, the darkest thing I've ever written. I apologize for that, but it just felt to me like madness isn't something that can be cured easily. It had to be excruciating, even though I hated having to do it. I hope to never have to write something quite like this again...


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